


License to Knot

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Chaperones, Creeper Derek, Creeper Peter, Just the Tip, Knotting, M/M, POV Alternating, Peter is his own warning, Play Fighting, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming, Sexist Attitudes, Sexist Language, play mating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2438750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mater's Ed.  It never occurred to the Alphas and Omegas back in the 70's, 80's, and 90's that they were screwing it up for future generations.  Too many wide-eyed, "No, Mr. Knotting License Official, I've <i>never</i> been knotted," by giggling Omegas had seen the US Department of Mating and Breeding Control set up stricter standards for Alphas and their Omega counterparts.</p><p>It's all ridiculous bureaucratic idiocy, but <i>everyone</i> has to suffer through it.   </p><p>Or</p><p>Blame it all on Peter.  It's his fault, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	License to Knot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halfhardtorock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfhardtorock/gifts).



> I AM SO VERY ADDICTED TO PLAY MATING. IT'S EATING MY BRAIN. IT'S ALL HALFHARDTOROCK'S FAULT. SHE STARTED THIS SHIT.
> 
> (oh god, never stop writing it)
> 
> I was so completely remiss when I posted this 8 hours ago. (17 hour day of youth soccer...I was exhausted!) This fic, and many lines and concepts, would not exist without the input of [dizzilytwirling](http://dizzilytwirling.tumblr.com) and [badwolfbadwolff](http://badwolfbadwolff.tumblr.com) who were right there through this entire, crack-fuelled venture. I love them more than they will ever know.

Stiles bites into his pillow, whining around the fabric before spitting it out. "How long…"

John sighs, long-suffering as only someone who's raised Stiles for sixteen years can be. Petting Stiles' flank, he slips his slick-coated fingers free and checks the elasticity of his son's rim again. It _seems_ to be stretched enough for now, but maybe he should add more lube? Another finger? Catching Stiles' rim with the tip of his finger, he pulls against it, watching his hole flutter open. "Asking me every two minutes isn't going to make time actually move faster."

Stiles' rim is a rosy pink, matching the pretty flush that spreads up Stiles' body, but John still frets. This is Stiles' first time trying _actual_ penetration and no matter how mater's ed prepares them, there's no guarantee that the kids are ever paying attention. If that Hale kid hurts his son…

...John will never forgive _himself_. It's _his_ responsibility, as Stiles' mating chaperone, to make sure that no accidents happen. To make sure he's fully prepped, that his body is secreting enough slick. That the No Knot is affixed properly.

Times like these, he wishes Claudia were still here. _She_ would know the words to say to offer comfort and patience to their ripe little Omega son. John has no idea what Stiles is going through, not really. Doesn't know what it's like for an Omega. He's heard that it's a gnawing ache, a _need_ to be stuffed full, but all he understands is the driving urge to shove in, to _knot_ and _breed_.

He knows what the Hale kid's going through, but not his own son. God, he's a failure as a father. Whose idea was it to let him have sole guardianship of a kid with such unique needs?

There's the sound of a car door slamming shut out front followed far too quickly by the ringing of the bell. The nearly _ceaseless_ ringing of the bell. John scowls. Had the kid _run_ from the car? Goddammit, he was supposed to be old enough not to lose his calm. He was supposed to—

"Dad! Oh my god, we have to let them in!" Stiles' little ass twitches under John's fingers.

With a mutter of discontent, John slides his fingers free again — while lost in thought, he'd apparently slipped them back in to keep Stiles open and pliable. Standing from the bed, he points at Stiles and says, "Do _not_ join us until you've got your No Knot on."

"Ugh, fine. Now, go let them in! I don't wanna fail my mater's ed final project because we left half my project group _standing on the front porch_. You know how grumpy he is. What if he leaves?!" Stiles flails himself off the bed in search of the chastity garment he'd flung to the floor earlier.

"Oh, kiddo, he's not leaving anytime soon. Get ready and meet us downstairs." Before he ducks out the door, John pauses and says, "And do _not_ come downstairs without putting some pants on. Hale might be getting his knotting certification next month, but there's no reason to push him."

"Yeah, yeah, old man. Go!"

John grimaces at Stiles' exuberance. His son, far too eager to pass for society's expectation of Omega submissiveness. Of course, Hale isn't a typical Alpha either. Too guarded and anti-social. Distrusting.

Finally at the door, John throws it wide while schooling his features into a welcoming expression. The last ring of the bell fades into the house, and Hale has enough grace to blush. Or maybe he's blushing for an entirely different reason, since the opening of the door cut through whatever his chaperone was hissing at him.

Having met Hale at the mating school, John turns to the man standing at his side and holds his hand out. "Welcome. I'm John Stilinski."

"Sheriff. It's good to meet you, finally. I'm Peter Hale, Derek's uncle."

 _Derek_ , right. John makes a mental note to use first names because saying _Hale_ will get confusing quickly.

"Peter, it's a pleasure." John's hand tightens around Peter's, about to drop it when a light scent teases his nostrils. "Oh. You're an…"

"Omega, yes. Derek told his mother you were an Alpha, and we thought it might prove helpful if there were an experienced Omega present to help young Stiles through the process." Peter smiles smoothly, but there's an edge to it. Something that unsettles John the tiniest bit.

"That's…. very kind of you." John holds the door open wider, ushering them in, just as Stiles starts hollering for him up the stairs. Jolting with alarm, he's about to go see what's wrong when Peter puts a hand on his sleeve, stopping him. 

"Let me. I'm sure you have some questions for Derek and the more formalities we can get out of the way, the more the boys will have an opportunity to relax."

John stills, uncertainty washing through him. Stiles' impatient " _Daaaaaaad_ " makes him twist his lips and nod at Peter. Let Peter see what he's getting himself into. For all that John loves his kid more than life itself, Stiles can be an irritating little snot.

While Peter starts upstairs, John leads Derek into the kitchen, where he has a list of questions to ask the newly provisionally-licensed Alpha.

~*~

Peter ensures his tread is muffled by the strip of carpet that bisects the stairs as he climbs toward the second story, listening for any disturbance downstairs that might signal two Alphas getting territorial. When nothing happens but Stiles' fresh call for his "Daddy", Peter hastens his steps to see what's wrong with the young Omega. As he rounds the doorway, he takes in the scene and can barely stifle a laugh.

Stiles is standing in front of his closet, trying to adjust the straps of the No Knot over his hips, frustration creasing his brow. Apparently noticing Peter's presence, he looks up and goes wide-eyed. "You're… not my dad."

"No, sorry. I'm Derek's uncle, Peter Hale." Seeing Stiles' eyes get impossibly wider, Peter hastens to reassure him. "Don't worry, I'm not here in his place. I'm his chaperone." Lips twisting wryly, Peter adds, "Your resident Omega guru."

Cocking his hips and seemingly unconcerned with his mostly-nude state, Stiles drags his gaze over Peter's chest and arms. "You don't _look_ like an Omega."

"That's because I'm deceptive." Peter smiled, slow and wicked. "In appearances only, of course."

"Whatever, dude. If you're here to help, this damn thing is—" Stiles twists his torso, trying to see his own ass, muttering curses the whole time.

"You won't need that." Gesturing to the chastity device, Peter adds, "Derek earned his exemption." 

Those wide eyes shoot to Peter, startled, as the boy's generous, _knot-receptive_ mouth drops open in a perfect circle of awe. "He got an _exemption?!_ But that's..."

_Exceedingly rare._

"Yes, we're all very proud." _He didn't lose control and rape a mating dummy_ , Peter wisely does not add.

"Well," Stiles wrinkles up his nose. " _Dad_ still has to approve. So I'd better wear it anyway." He shifts his hips, face screwing up in discomfort.

Peter rolls his lips under and bites them to contain his renewed mirth. "You've got it inside out. The silicone should be… here. Let me." Peter steps closer and drops to his knees, sliding the No Knot from Stiles' hips, over his ass, and down his long, coltish legs. "Step out?" Twisting the material around with quick efficiency, Peter holds it back up for Stiles to step into, straightening a touch so Stiles can brace himself against Peter's shoulder. Dragging the No Knot into place, Peter adjusts the pouch in the back, tucking the silicone tip up inside Stiles' ass, testing the give of his rim.

At least that much is ready, Peter thinks, admiring the clean scent of Stiles' slick. Obviously the sheriff had thoroughly prepared his young son. Peter sank onto his heels, letting that image wash over him. Those strong, blunt fingers tugging at his son's pink little rim, sliding deep, twisting to fill every inch of space. So careful as his brow knits with concern.

"When did you get your provisional receiving license, Stiles?" Peter asks, deciding to use this opportunity to take care of the more official aspects of his role as play mating chaperone.

"Dad took me to the courthouse on my birthday. April 12th." Stiles hops up and down, trying to see below his waist in the mirror mounted to the wall. "But I had special dispensation to start mater's ed before then because I'd already started squirting."

Peter wrinkles his nose at the gauche term. "When you discuss this around Alphas, please use the term 'producing natural lubrication.' We don't need to set Omega rights back fifty years."

"I'm reclaiming the term! Power to the people!" Stiles lifts a fist, a shit-eating grin stretching his mouth wide. 

"Have you completed your workbook?" Peter asks with a sigh, letting it go. Christ, he feels _old_ in the face of this puppy's eagerness. 

"Ugh, yes. I suppose you need to see it?"

"Please." Peter waits patiently for Stiles to dig through the piles of school books on the desk, finally producing a badly mangled mating school workbook. Flipping through it, he makes sure that Stiles has some idea of the process they're about to take part in before he gets distracted by what looks to be an essay on the history of Beta circumcision in the margins of the human reproductive cycle diagram. "What…?"

"Oh! Sorry, the teacher was going off on a tangent that day about the economics of knotting, and I got bored. My best friend is a Beta, so I've done some research. Wikipedia, man." Stiles shakes his head, eyes going glassy for a minute. 

Appalled, Peter asks, "Who's your teacher?"

"Coach Finstock." 

Of course. A pit of genuine worry opens in Peter's belly, and he leads Stiles to the bed, sitting them both down before asking as gently as he knows how, "Stiles, are you absolutely certain you're ready for this?"

"Oh my _god_ , yes! I mean, I get it, Coach isn't _great_ at the teaching thing, but dude, do you think I'd just accept someone else's word on it? Hell no, dude. _Research._ So much research. And knotting dildos and… Look. The only way I can get my _real_ receiving license is to take the class and get certified, right? I mean, otherwise I have to do a practical test in front of one of those old geezers down at the licensing office instead of just the written test and… yeah. Can you imagine being able to slick up with one of them breathing down your neck?"

Peter frowns, still troubled, but willing to accept the boy's word until he proves himself wrong. Oh well, that's why there are chaperones, honestly. Shaking his head, Peter stands up and replaces the workbook on the desk, balancing it precariously on top of a stack of graphic novels. 

"Do you have any other questions for _me_?" he asks, watching as Stiles squirms on the bed, the silicone tip of the No Knot planting itself deep inside his little ass. It brings back fond memories for Peter, of his own sixteenth birthday.

Not that the No Knot even existed then. No, for them — he and his mater's ed partner, Chris — it had been all intercrural, all the time. Well. _All the time_ their chaperones had been present. And when the chaperones had been otherwise occupied, _just the tip_ had been too much for them to bear. He bites his lip, lowering his gaze as he feels a flush of remembered arousal. Chris' knot had been huge and perfect, and neither of them had been at all convincing when they'd gone for their licenses and assured the examiners that they'd never participated in pre-licensed knotting.

Of course, that's why Alphas these days had to wait 'til 21 to get their knotting provisional licenses. And also why jock strap manufacturers had been pressured into creating the ugly No Knot for Omegas to wear during play mating. Really, Peter thought with an inner sneer, it was just a jock strap turned backward, a silicone tip inserted in the middle of the pouch to protect the provisionally receiving Omegas from having knots forced on them.

Or from Alphas caving to desperate Omega pleas for more. Peter fondly remembers how easy Chris had been to persuade that first time. And the second...

"Nope. No questions," Stiles says, dragging Peter from his thoughts. The boy is practically vibrating with anticipation, so Peter hands him the sweatpants that are slung over the back of his desk chair and watches as he quickly stuffs both legs into them. 

"Then I suppose it's time to go downstairs and join Derek and your father."

"Sweet!"

Peter shakes his head at Stiles' obvious eagerness, following at a more sedate pace behind the boy, who nearly tumbles down the stairs in his haste to get play mated.

~*~

Stiles can't believe it's time already. It feels like he's been waiting for this moment his entire life, and _finally_ it's here. It's time to play mate with an actual, flesh-and-blood Alpha.

And okay, yeah, Stiles probably wouldn't have picked Derek "even my eyebrows hate everything" Hale to be his mater's ed partner. He's the least Alpha-like person Stiles has ever met. Where most Alphas are laid-back, easy-going, fully cocky yet still _soothing_ counterparts to the stereotypical high-strung Omegas, Derek just glowers his way through life. 

But he's big and muscular in all the right ways, his hands wide and blunt. He's strong enough to have pinned Stiles multiple times during their grappling sessions — required by the mating schools to ensure the initial pinning during play mating and _real_ mating doesn't lead to sprains or broken bones — and the memory of having his heaving, sweaty body covering Stiles' back has Stiles squirming as he follows the sound of his dad's voice to the kitchen.

When he walks in on Derek signing the play mating contract, Stiles can't help a small flare of arousal. He flushes, panicked, when a bead of slick slips out from around the No Knot's silicone plug and begins to run down his leg. And then he catches the way Derek's nostrils flare and relaxes because _it's okay._ It's their turn to play mate.

He's _supposed_ to be slick. 

Thinking about his slick reminds him of his conversation with Derek's weird uncle. "Hey, Dad, did Derek tell you?"

His dad doesn't even pretend not to know what has Stiles so excited. "Yes, Stiles, he showed me his exemption paperwork. I'm very impressed. You chose your project partner wisely." 

Okay, so Stiles doesn't appreciate the exaggerated tone of surprise, but he can let that go as long as his dad shows a little leniency. "And?!"

"And... I'll allow it." Before Stiles can start celebrating, his dad adds, "Since I'll be right there to stop any accidents from happening."

Oh, _god._ Stiles covers his face, moaning an embarrassed, "Daaaad!"

"No, it's fine," Derek blurts, the giant nerd. "I'd appreciate the guidance of an experienced Alpha." The glare he shoots Stiles says more clearly than words, _Don't fuck this up. He can still change his mind._

Which, yeah, but it's going to be so embarrassing to have his dad standing over them, watching Derek. Like he hadn't spent _years_ with a practice mating dummy before he could qualify for his provisional license. Like Stiles hadn't used his favorite knotting dildo _just last night_ while thinking of today. Ugh, these government restrictions are so _stupid._

Omegas in France can receive knots as soon as they start self-slicking, Stiles thinks petulantly. 

Or maybe he says it out loud because his dad just purses his lips and intones, dryly, "Yes, but you live in California, where the legal age of Omega reception is sixteen. And the American government has restrictions in place to prevent inexperienced knotting because that leads to—"

"Prolapsed anal passages and catastrophic rim separation. I _know_. They showed us those videos in mater's ed, Dad." Stiles doesn't say anything about how he'd broken down laughing in class at the buckets of fake blood the director of those terrible, 70's-era mater's ed films had thrown on the camera. They were _so bad_.

His dad flicks him gently on the nose. "Then stop complaining. It's my job as your chaperone — as your _dad_ — to ensure your safety. And I do trust Derek, but I also remember how ... difficult it can be to rein back the mating urge when you transition to a real Omega the first time. Fresh pheromones are a night and day difference to the bottled ones from the pharmacy. And a practice mating dummy, even the quality ones, just don't move right." He directs this last bit to Derek, who nods companionably.

"I would be amazed if you didn't have some reservations." Derek attempting to be mature and responsible and _soothing_ is goddamned hilarious, because it's like his face doesn't know what to do. His eyebrows draw together menacingly and his lips tilt up in a stiff smile even as his thick stubble just...broods. 

Stiles has to bite his fist to keep from laughing out loud.

"Well," Peter Hale says, entering the room. "The play area looks to be ready. Stiles? Derek?"

Stiles lowers his fist, all humor washed away by a swarm of nerves. It's _time._

He glances at Derek, whose face has gone dark, ready. He's staring at Stiles hungrily, like he's food or something; and just like that, the nerves are gone. 

All the awkwardness that has plagued Stiles his entire life drains away as instinct takes over. He tosses a challenging smirk at Derek before he turns, walking on the balls of his feet in a move designed to lift his ass teasingly. He sways toward the door, glorying in the thick pheromones he's laying in an unmistakable trail.

 _Catch me if you can_.

As he slips past Peter, he rubs against him. Stiles doesn't _care_ that Peter's a fellow Omega. It's a challenge to Derek's instincts and it _works._

He prances toward the prepared living room, more graceful than he's ever been. He glories in the feeling of invincibility that floods him. He's ready and _receptive_ but his Alpha has to _earn_ the right to mount him.

By the time he enters the living room, Derek's low, thrilling mating growls are rumbling through the air. Stiles hisses in response, baring his teeth. 

It's a very good thing Stiles and his dad moved all the furniture out the day before, because Derek's first rush would have broken _something_. Stiles slips around him easily, graceful as a bullfighter. He laughs, high and mocking, and that seems to be the catalyst for Derek regaining control. 

Derek stops, turns his back on Stiles. _Ignores_ him. 

Stiles knows, in the back of his head where the logical part of him lives, that it's tricky Alpha posturing, that Derek is attuned to his every breath, but lizard-brain Stiles yowls angrily. Stalking forward, he pushes out more slick, forcing Derek to acknowledge him. 

When he's within touching distance, Derek strikes, spinning and grabbing Stiles. Sweeps his legs until he's flat on his back.

But Derek hasn't won yet. He still has to flip Stiles. And Derek may be broad and strong but Stiles is all lean muscle. Wiry and lithe. He lays quiescent until Derek relaxes his hold, then he's like an eel, slippery and impossible to hold onto.

Derek yips excitedly, eyes bright. Stiles knows he likes a good challenge, and he's more than prepared to give him one. 

As they grapple on the floor, knocking throw pillows around wildly, _others_ enter the play area. Stiles stiffens, hissing a challenge at the muted scent of another Omega. He doesn't want to give up, isn't ready to present yet, but this is _his_ Alpha. 

Peter's low, slightly-mocking laugh cuts through the air. "Don't worry, pup. I'm not here to challenge you. Now do us proud and _fight_."

Stiles flashes his teeth, exhilaration lighting him up. He wriggles free from Derek, using the distraction of another Alpha to cover his moves. He flips, but not to present. Instead, he mounts _Derek's_ back, rumbling contentedly as he slides his legs around Derek's trim, muscular waist, hooks his elbow around Derek's throat.

And then he's spinning and twisting through the air, blinking dazedly as the air is driven from his lungs by the impact of his back with the floor. Again. For a second, the mating haze clears enough for him to be impressed by the over-the-shoulder flip Derek employed. It was stupid, of course, because he could have snapped Derek's idiot neck. But it was still impressive.

As he flounders there, stunned, trying to convince his lungs to work, Derek easily flips him onto his belly, humming contentedly as he immediately begins to rut against Stiles, his hard cock digging into Stiles' crease through three layers of cloth. The plug tip of the No Knot grinds into Stiles, stirring up his slick passage, making hot pleasure spiral through his body.

Stiles first breath comes out on a sigh as he pushes his ass back, reluctantly accepting Derek's dominance. "It's not always going to be that easy. Jerk."

Derek just laughs in his ear, big hands dragging his sweats down off his ass.

~*~

_God_ , he's been so good. So _patient_. Doing everything right. Giving all the right responses. Studying harder for the stupid mater's ed tests than for his university finals.

He'd practiced on his knotting dummy more than was necessary. More than was socially acceptable. Woke up at 3am every night for a month, went into mating clinics to get extra pheromones, all in an effort to be so perfect at his knotting practicum that he'd achieve the impossible: an exemption. 

Because he _wants_ this. Wants _Stiles._

It's practically unheard of to bond to one's mater's ed partner. They're randomly assigned in the third week of co-ed classes all over the country, but the instant Derek saw Stiles the first time, the instant he _smelled_ him, he knew.

This was _his_ Omega. 

So he'd done a little dirty work, hacked a few servers — with help — and called upon Coach's lingering affection for his one and only All-State basketball star to get what he wanted. Awkward, eager, gawky little Stiles Stilinski as his mater's ed partner. His first, and — if he has anything to say about it — last mating partner. Play mates for now, until his licensing restrictions are removed next month the day he gets his knotting certification.

He isn't going to be able to knot Stiles tonight, of course, which has his instincts gnashing in frustrated fury, but he'll be able to touch. Taste. Roll Stiles' slick over his tongue and bathe his fingers in it.

He's so eager he takes stupid chances during their initial grappling, but somehow it works. He's got Stiles under him, ass pulled up high for him to rut against. But it's not enough.

He hears Stiles mutter something, and it sounds bratty, but under the words he hears _acceptance_. He laughs in response, victory flooding him, and reaches for the thick material of Stiles' sweatpants, dragging them slowly, teasingly down. He bares that pale ass a smooth, perfect inch at a time, mouth watering as he finally sees it all for the first time. 

The No Knot is in place, the ugly woven pouch hiding the shadows of Stiles' crease from him, but the knot blocker — the malleable silicone tip that allows a provisional Alpha insert _only_ the tip of their cock into their Omega partner — is there like a beacon for his attention. Abandoning Stiles' sweats just below the bottom curve of his ass, Derek reaches up and inserts his fingers, stabbing them rudely into the silicone and pulling it free. 

The straps of the No Knot are easy enough to slice through with the judicious application of a claw, and he tosses it away, over his shoulder to be forgotten. He lowers his face, but under his hands Stiles goes still, his muscles poised for escape. 

Growling low in his throat, Derek surges forward, covering Stiles with his body and sinking teeth into the back of his neck. He's done with fighting, with posturing. He _won_ already.

Stiles goes lax under him with a tiny mewling sound. Little kitten noises that are meant to soothe his Alpha. He holds on until Stiles draws his knees up, presenting, offering Derek the prize he's worked so hard for.

Rumbling his approval, Derek opens his jaw, taking note of the marks his teeth have left. No blood or broken skin, he notes idly as he opens his mouth over the knobs at the top of Stiles' spine, sucking kisses there before following them down, one after the other.

By the time he makes it back to the round perfection of Stiles' ass, Stiles is making high, desperate noises in the back of his throat. His spine is arched to such an extreme as he presents that Derek hears something pop. 

He doesn't wait longer, sees no reason to drag this out or tease either of them. Drawing a deep breath, he plunges in, spearing his tongue directly into the lovingly prepared hole.

Stiles' flavor hits his hind brain before his tongue even registers it. It sates something wild in Derek even as his _need_ becomes overwhelming. 

He grips Stiles' hips, thumbs stretching to pull Stiles ass cheeks wider, giving him more access. He sucks and bites, working Stiles' ass until Stiles' rim clenches down around Derek's tongue with his first orgasm.

Stiles' responsiveness makes Derek tremble and he's riding the razor's edge of control when suddenly hands are pulling him backward, dragging him away. He starts to fight the hands, but the grip on him is unshakable and a voice filled with _power_ calls his name.

"—ear me? Hale! C'mon, son, snap out of it. You have better control than this."

Derek blinks, breathes, shakes his head. Looking up, he sees the sheriff standing over him, his fangs extended in a show of authority that no human badge could provide. "Sorry," Derek lisps around his own fangs. "What's wrong? Why..."

"Check point. Stiles needs to be examined after every orgasm."

Derek wants to protest — checkpoints are outdated to the point of antiquity — but it won't help him to alienate this man. Dipping his head, he surreptitiously licks up the slick that's still wet on his lips and says, "Of course."

They both turn to see Peter holding Stiles' blissed-out face in his hands, prying his eyes open to check pupillary response, fingers wrapped around Stiles' wrist to feel for his heart rate. Too fast or too slow and they'll have to stop.

Derek holds his breath until his uncle's small smile reassures him. 

Then, because this is Peter, he pushes it. Reaches behind Stiles and slides three long fingers inside him until Derek and the sheriff are both growling separate warnings.

Omega or not, he should know better than to touch Stiles' passage while he's in the middle of a spontaneous pseudo-heat. Actually, _because_ he's an Omega he should know better.

"Everything looks to be in order. Although you might be more careful, nephew. Your beard has left him quite delightfully sensitive."

Derek doesn't have to raise a finger. The sheriff is across the room, forearm a strong bar across Peter's throat as he growls subvocal threats into Peter's smirking face.

Released, Derek lunges for Stiles, smoothing his hands over all the places Peter touched, wiping his scent away. Stiles stretches, eyelids fluttering, and he roots around until his head is in Derek's lap, that perfect pink mouth lipping mindlessly at the head of Derek's cock where it's pushing rudely through the waistband of his pants.

"Alpha," Stiles whispers, and the needy sound of it nearly guts Derek. 

Smoothing Stiles' sweaty hair back, Derek rumbles approvingly, his lips tipping up gently at the way Stiles rolls over, preening at the praise. He spends a few more precious minutes soothing his Omega before he starts stroking the soft skin of his belly. His avid gaze lands on Stiles' cock where it's twitching in a nest of thin, dark hair. 

He licks his lips, mouth buzzing with the need to taste. Will his come taste the same as his slick, or...

Or will it taste thick and salty, like the musk of his scent? Clean and fresh but... with a spice that lingers in the back of the throat. 

Derek breathes deep, eyes closing as he holds that scent inside himself, greedy.

Stiles arching under his hand brings him back to the moment, and he rumbles louder when he realizes Stiles is trying to turn over again, of his own volition. He knows his eyes must be glowing right now, because Stiles' are in response. That long throat stretches back, bares itself to Derek's gaze. 

Derek shifts his hips, about to accept the offering of Stiles' throat when Stiles flips, quick as a cat, and slices through the front of Derek's pants, drawing thin lines of blood on either side of his bare cock. Stiles chuffs, pleased with himself, before opening his pink mouth wide and swallowing as much of Derek as he can in this position.

Derek stiffens, a shout trapped in his throat. He glances wildly toward where the sheriff is forcing Peter to submit, knowing he should pull Stiles off but not wanting to give this up any sooner than he has to. Curling his fingers in Stiles' hair, he grinds his hips up at the same time he forces Stiles' head down, breath shattering when the head of his cock burrows into the tight squeeze of Stiles' throat.

Goddamn, this kid is fucking perfect.

Derek keeps up his little rebellion as long as he can, but when the sheriff's shoulder's drop, his arm lowering from Peter's throat, Derek uses his hold on Stiles' hair to pull him off instead of push him down. Stiles fights him, of course, but his dazed state is no match for Derek's brute Alpha strength.

Shushing Stiles gently, Derek helps him crawl back to presentation form. Possessive pride wars with guilt when he sees the proof of Peter's claim that his beard had marked Stiles. His ass and inner thighs are a mess of beard burn, which Derek runs his fingers over to feel the heat that rises.

Stiles mewls again, hips hitching, but Derek wants to linger now. Play.

He rubs his fingers smoothly over Stiles' rim, smiling when slick automatically begins to form at his touch. The muscles in Stiles' back ripple in reaction, and he sighs, a little moan of sound. 

Derek just rubs, over and over massaging that furrowed muscle, until Stiles is bent nearly in half he's presenting so hard. His ass is lifted so high Derek would need a ladder to mount him, but it just makes Derek chuckle fondly. Finally, he murmurs a soft, "Okay, okay," and slips one finger inside. 

And then his brain goes offline again because Stiles is so _hot_ inside. So tight and wet and _muscular_ , like he's been exercising his breeding passage everyday for months.

Like he's been training as hard as Derek has for this day.

The very thought has Derek eager to reward his Omega, so he seeks out the swollen prostate gland, massages it firmly, scents the air as that action triggers the release of a flood of Omega pheromones. This is what Stiles will smell like when he's in heat. Real heat. 

Derek's teeth itch with anticipation.

Even though he's already come once, Stiles flies toward the edge quickly. He's swinging his ass, long moans rolling from his throat that increase in pitch and frequency until Stiles' passage is clamping down on Derek's fingers, trying to milk them.

Derek looks up, fingers still locked high inside Stiles, and searches out the sheriff, who is standing to the side, clenching his opposing elbows as sweats beads along his brow. It takes Derek a moment, but then he remembers: Alpha. Stiles' pheromones must be choking him.

"Don't trust either of us to check him. Just... go easy. It's time."

And it is. 

Derek shoves the scrap of his pants down his thighs and uses the fingers hooked in Stiles ass to tug him down to a better height for mounting. He looks at that hole, all cherry red from Derek's prolonged attention and _dripping_ with slick and he kneels up.

"Just the tip," the sheriff growls in warning. 

Derek thinks he nods an acknowledgement, but he's honestly unsure. All he knows, all he can feel, is the sucking kiss of Stiles' ass opening around the tip of his cock. He thrusts shallowly, rolling his hips like he's rutting. Swings one leg over Stiles' ass, pushing him down so he can slide the rest of his length over the crease as his head rolls in and out.

He holds out as long as he can, not wanting to give this up, but his knot has been too long denied. So fast it makes Derek hunch over, a breath punching out of him, his knot swells up, locking him _out_ of Stiles' ass.

He lets go then, releases all restraint on his control. He forces his cock as far into Stiles as he can, until the bulb of his knot stops the penetration, over and over. His thrusts are erratic, he's growling and snapping at Stiles, all animalistic in his need to mate. To _breed_.

The sour scent of a rival Alpha grows close, thick, and Derek's lips peel back on a snarl. The sheriff is there, _right there_ , lifting Stiles' mindlessly curling hand in his grip and gently twisting his arm until those grasping fingers are there, curling around Derek's knot. 

Stiles murmurs, his voice sounding pitiful, and the sheriff shushes him, holding blunt fingers to his red lips until Stiles is suckling on them. 

"Seed him now," the sheriff says, command in his tone.

As he says this, Stiles tightens his grip, the firm squeeze impossibly perfect on Derek's knot. Derek yanks Stiles up with an arm across his chest, teeth sinking into Stiles' neck as Stiles milks his knot until he's spurting into Stiles' ass, seeding his passage until a mixture of his come and Stiles' slick overflows to run thickly between their bodies.

It's not the hours of knotting that they'll be able to look forward to a month from now, but it goes on long enough that Stiles is squirming against him by the time he's finally wrung dry, his pseudo-heat quieted by the pheromones Derek is filling him with. 

"Gross, dude," Stiles says, though he gives Derek one last lingering squeeze before he slips his fingers free and wiggles his arm around, letting blood flow back to it after it'd been twisted up behind him for so long. Patting Derek's face, he says, "Okay, withdraw the teeth now, big guy. I get it, rwarrr, you Alpha, me Omega."

Derek pulls his teeth free, but leaves his face buried in the back of Stiles' neck, if for no other reason than to hide the smile he can feel stretching his mouth wide. Perfect or not, his Omega is a little shit. Next time he feels the urge to shut him up, maybe he'll knot his mouth instead of his ass. That'll give Derek a good, sass-free hour. 

When Derek finally feels more like himself, he pulls away from Stiles, grimacing when their thighs literally _peel_ apart, having been half-glued together with drying come. That was… unnecessarily disgusting.

Grabbing the back of Stiles' neck, Derek directs him to turn around a bit, and looks him over. "Are you okay?"

"Hell yeah, dude. Ten out of ten, would play mate again!" Stiles holds his hand up, and Derek stares at it, uncomprehending. "High five? No?"

Rolling his eyes, Derek shares a long-suffering look with the sheriff, who's moved back a few good feet, giving them room. But that makes him remember Peter, and he scowls around the room until he sees his uncle, leaning against the wall in the hallway just outside the living room, pouting. He opens his mouth to say something, only to stop when the sheriff makes a low noise.

"I'll deal with your uncle, son. Don't worry about it."

"This won't… adversely affect our play mating assessment?" Unable to help himself, Derek pulls Stiles back against him, much to Stiles' obvious disgruntlement. But when he smooths his hand down Stiles' chest, Stiles pushes into the contact. 

"Not at all. Just leave Peter to me." The sheriff pushes to his feet, and looks mildly awkward before Stiles pipes up.

"Let's never speak of this again?" Stiles offers, sounding completely serious.

"Deal, kiddo." The sheriff turns with a chuckle, collecting Peter as he wanders further into the house, letting them have a bit of privacy.

Derek doesn't stop touching Stiles, and once they're alone, he nuzzles down into his neck again. "When—"

"Tomorrow?"

Derek chuckles. "You don't think that's a bit soon?"

"Oh. Was I too eager?" Stiles' voice goes a little flat, and Derek pops him quickly on the ass with the flat of his hand, dragging him out of his head before he can get bogged down in nervousness or self-consciousness.

"You were perfect," Derek murmurs against Stiles' ear. 

It's sappy, which Stiles is gleefully happy to inform him of, but it's also true, so Derek doesn't care. And if Stiles wants to play again tomorrow, he'll be there. 

Maybe the sheriff will agree to chaperone them alone.

~*~ Epilogue ~*~

John flips his Rolodex until he spots a familiar card. The file open on his work computer had given him quite a fascinating bit of information, but it also gave him an idea.

"Argent Arms."

"Chris Argent, please. Let him know it's John Stilinski." John leans back in his chair, flipping his pen against his blotter.

"Of course, Sheriff. Just one moment." 

There's a brief moment of hold music before the line picks up again. "John? How can I help you?"

"Any chance you're the Chris Argent whose play mate in June of 1998 was Peter Hale?"

"Play…? Uh. Peter, huh? Yeah, actually… John, what's this about?" 

John smiles, and it's all teeth. "I had a run in with Peter recently. I know you're unbonded, but if this is uncomfortable for you, just stop me at any point."

There's a long pause and what sounds like a door closing before Chris says, "I'm listening."

"Well, Chris, it seems Peter has this idea he's free to do as he pleases. He's been a little… spoiled. Nothing that a firm hand wouldn't help of course."

Chris' voice sounds dry when he says, "Of course. And you think I've got the right hands for Peter Hale? I remember that little shit. I don't mind admitting it'll take a better Alpha than me to tame that particular Omega."

John watches his silver pen as it spins lazily between his fingers, nodding to himself. "That's the same thought I had about myself when I considered it. But where _one_ pair of firm hands might fail…" He lets Chris follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

"John, I like the way you think. You free for dinner this week?"

John looks at his calendar, snorting at all the _play mating_ dates Stiles and Derek had managed to cram in there. "How's Thursday? Stiles has mater's ed that night, and I can switch my shifts around."

"I'll bring the wine. You bring Peter."

**Author's Note:**

> play mating play mating play mating play mating yessssssss


End file.
